


Eight Days

by madeitsimple



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Consent, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23776834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeitsimple/pseuds/madeitsimple
Summary: Steve goes missing for eight, long days. When they finally get him back, Tony tries to put him back together again.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 11
Kudos: 143





	Eight Days

It’s dusk when they finally bring him back.

Through the glare of the setting sun, Tony watches from his office as the Quinjet lands, his feet itching to run out onto the tarmac.

“He’s bruised and battered to hell but otherwise alive,” Sam had said. That was over three hours ago. Until then, they had been searching for Steve for 8 days. Sam and Rhody had been the ones to find him, half-naked and shivering in the dense, cold woods around Eastern Europe.

From the window, Tony watches as Dr. Cho and Bruce rush onto the jet as the gangplank drops. On their orders, he is supposed to stay away--to give Steve some semblance of privacy--but the distance is more than he can take. He stands up from his desk and races across two floors and down three flights of stairs to the medical wing. He’s slightly out of breath when he arrives, just in time to see Bruce and Helen calmly wheel Steve into an exam room, the doors sliding shut behind them.

“We sedated him,” Sam says coming up to him. He’s covered in dirt and grime, the silver edges of his Falcon uniform dingy. “Bruce said it would be better than trying to talk to him too much.”

“How is he?” Tony asks, still trying to catch his breath.

Rhody shrugs his shoulders, at a loss. “He’s shaken up, beat to hell. I don’t know, he was pretty out of it. He looked scared, Tony.”

Sam sits on one of the overstuffed leather sofas in the waiting room, staring up at them both. “It was bad, how we found him.” As a habit, they’re not in the business of keeping details from each other, but something in Sam’s voice lets Tony know he doesn’t want to keep going.

“Jesus Christ, what happened to him?” he asks.

“We don’t really know,” Sam says. “He must have fought his way out from wherever he was being held. He was on the run, barefoot. We found him in his underwear, freezing in the dirt. There were puncture marks all over him.” Sam shakes his head at the memory. “Cuts along his thigh and chest. His wrists were rubbed raw. Like he’d been tied up.”

Tony swallows past the sudden tightness in his throat, relief and anger mixing in a ball in his stomach. They had been searching for Steve for over a week, after he’d failed to check in during a routine surveillance mission. For 8 days, they’d crisscrossed the area where Steve’s transponder had last pinged, searching for some sign that he wasn’t dead.

“He’s alive,” Sam says, as if reading Tony’s mind. “I don’t know how but right now that’s all that matters.”

Tony nods, trying to exhale some his worry. It hasn’t been easy on any of them. For the next hour, the three of them, plus Natasha, sit outside his room, impatiently waiting till Bruce finally comes outside.

“He’s awake,” he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Right now, he’s stable but we’re still running tests.”

“What’s the damage?” Tony asks.

“There’s a lot of superficial bruising, cuts, lacerations, a few broken ribs, and what looks like a bruised kidney. His body chemistry is way off, though. It looks like he was held captive, tortured. Maybe worse.”

“Fuck.” It sets Tony’s teeth on edge, his anger rising. Sam slams the coffee table in disgust.

“Can we see him?” Natasha asks.

For a second, Bruce looks like he’s going to protest, but he eventually nods. “One at a time.”

There’s no discussion about who will go first, and Tony follows Bruce through the sliding glass doors. The lights in the room have been dimmed considerably and to Tony’s relief, Steve looks a sight better than he expected, with a minimal amount of wires and tubes coming out of him. The right side of his face is still a mess of bruises but cleared of blood and dirt. His mouth quirks up as Tony stands at the foot of his bed.

“I’m fine,” Steve says. His voice is slightly horse. Tony can just make out dark thumb prints at the bottom of his throat, as if he’s been choaked. A bruised trachea, then.

“You look fine,” Tony says, blinking back sudden tears. “Expected a few more bullet wounds or something. At least make the rescue opp worth our while.”

Steve huffs out a laugh. “Sorry to waste your time.”

Tony smiles through his clenched jaw and jams his hands into his pockets, out of fear of what they might reach out and touch. Next to him, Dr. Cho fiddles with an IV on Steve’s arm. “I would urge you not excite Captain Rogers too much,” she says, her voice was soft yet firm. “We’re still running tests, just to be safe.” She shuts the door on her way out, leaving them alone.

“How are you feeling?” Tony asks.

“Fine,” Steve says again, like it’s a reflex.

“Come on, how are you really feeling?”

He holds Tony’s gaze for a second, his guard still up. “I’m alright,” he says so Tony sighs and let’s it go.

“Bruce said you had a few broken ribs. I hope they gave you the good pain drugs.”

“Hmm.” Steve nods in affirmation, eyes still glassy and weak. His arms are on top of the blankets, dotted with round, symmetrical puncture wounds. The clinical nature of the marks unsettle Tony even more. He’s about to leave, let Sam have his turn, when Steve looks up at him, uncertain.

“Tony?” he says, “I don’t really remember what happened.”

“That’s OK,” Tony says, trying not to betray his own worry. “We’ll figure it out.”

“I thought I had pieces of it but I only remember trees and dirt,” he shakes his head helplessly, starting to get worked up.

Unable to help himself, Tony places a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “That’s not important right now,” Tony says. “You’re back, Steve. That’s all anyone cares about.” He knows SHIELD will come asking for details, the UN World Council too, but they’ll have to go through him first.

“It was cold,” Steve says, his voice low. “And I was,” he frowns, searching his memory. “In the dark maybe? Underground? But it was loud, there were a lot of machines.”

“Try to relax. You don’t have to do this now.”

“There were a lot of voices.” His voice cracks, the strain of trying to remember already taking its toll.

“Ok, that’s enough,” Tony says, and because he’s sure Steve won’t remember, cards his fingers through Steve’s hair. “You’re going to be ok,” he whispers, watching as Steve’s eyes slip shut.

“I know,” Steve mumbles, already drifting away.

Tony stays till he’s asleep, and stares too long at the broken, bruised body in front of him. His own exhaustion is catching up to him, but it’s not time to rest, not yet. They still have work to do.

***

It takes them two days--two more long, sleepless days--to search the woods where he’d been found. They find bits of his uniform, torn to shreds, in a clearing a half mile from their drop site. From there, they follow a trail of dried blood and bare foot prints back through thick underbrush until they stumble upon the farmhouse. It makes his stomach curl to have to go inside, but they do, the four of them. By the time they come out, Natasha’s eyes are red with tears, and Tony has to drop to his knees to vomit.

They fly back in silence, until it’s time to land. Sam slaps him on the back, and Natasha gives Rhody a squeeze, and they school their expressions into neutrality as they step off the plane, trying to forgot what they’ve seen.

***

A few hours later, Steve is out of the hospital and wanders into the common room, where they’ve all been gathered. There’s some stiffness in his gait and Natasha takes care not to crush him in her embrace, but he looks mostly fine. Steve’s color is good, his face free of cuts and bruises.

“Look who’s walking around! We missed you, man,” Sam turns their handshake into a loose bro hug and from the outside it all looks fine, like Steve just returned from a short trip to DC. But they know better, and Tony can sense the wrongness in the rigid way Steve stands, how his right hand keeps curling and uncurling into a fist. Nat hugs him again, running her hands up and down the gray sweatshirt Steve usually only wears to sleep. When she pulls away, her eyes are wet.

“Don’t worry about me,” Steve says, brushing at her cheek. She laughs it off, but keeps an arm tucked around his waist.

Tony wants to pat him down, check him over for scars and breaks, but he sits on his hands instead, watching from the far side of the room. Steve’s stoicism doesn’t sit well with him at the best of times but right now, knowing what he knows, it practically breaks his heart.

“How’s he doing?” Tony catches Bruce off to the side, as the others pour a few drinks to celebrate.

“Physically, he’s mostly healed.” Bruce keeps his eyes locked on Steve, but there’s sympathy in his voice. “Otherwise...you’d have to ask him.”

They still argue too much, the two of them, butting heads over policy and procedure even on good days, but things feel different now. It’s not the pettiness of before, when Tony fought back just to fight back. He loves their push and pull now, can see how it’s changing him to his core, and how lost he would be without it.

“You think he’d tell me?” Tony asks, knowing how tightly Steve keeps himself to himself. Bruce just smiles, and surprises him. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

They linger through dinner, though it’s obvious fatigue has sent in for everyone. Steve’s shoulders slump a little too much, and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat again and again. When Tony accidentally catches his eye, Steve turns away quickly, flexing his jaw like he’s swallowing a grimace of pain. No one protests when Steve excuses himself after the last plate has been cleared.

Sam and Natasha are better at giving Steve his space, have patience for the ages, but Tony’s never been good with patience, going too fast and too headlong into everything. He watches Steve practically flee the room and it only takes a few minutes before he’s pushing back his own chair, and following him out.

***

“Steve?” He stands outside Steve’s bedroom, straining to hear anything from the inside. The door is locked but his access code still works, and he enters with a loud rap of his knuckles. The room is empty, Steve’s jeans and sweatshirt thrown onto the bed. He’s about to call his name again when there’s a loud crash from the bathroom, followed by muffled cursing.

“Steve? You OK?”

For anyone else, it would be a cue to leave Steve alone, but Tony’s never known a boundary he didn’t want to leap over. He knocks loudly on the bathroom door, calling Steve’s name until he hears a muffled “What!”

“Can I come in?” He opens the door without waiting for an answer, finding Steve clad only in a towel and hunched over the sink, breathing hard. Toiletries are scattered cross the clean slate floor.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Fine,” Steve says, gripping the marble basin. “It’s nothing.”

It’s clearly something. From the doorway, Tony watches the heavy up and down of Steve’s chest as he tries to control his breathing. He’s huffing like he just finished a workout, or a fight.

“You can leave, Tony. I’m alright.”

Tony ignores him and moves closer, wondering if Steve’s had a panic attack, maybe been felled by a resurfaced memory. He stops short though, surprised, when he sees the erection tenting Steve’s towel.

“Oh.”

Anyone with a healthy respect for privacy would turn around at this point, but Tony stays still, trying to piece together what’s happening. Steve looks at him over his shoulder, his fingers white against the sink. “I can’t remember what happened to me” he says. “Everything is fuzzy...just bits and pieces of things. Hell, you probably know more than I do.”

For once Tony keeps his mouth shut, waits for Steve to keep talking.

“My body chemistry, it’s still all fucked up. Bruce says it’ll take a few days for the chemicals to filter out. Whatever they used to sedate me, it’s reeking havoc on my body.”

Tony pointedly raises his eyebrows towards Steve’s towel. “Is that a side effect?”

“An embarrassing one,” Steve says. His mouth turns into a thin line, the growing problem in front of him not something he views with any kind of pleasure. “I can’t really control it,” he mumbles. “I should be able to handle this myself but...it’s not working. I don’t know, stress or something. I’ll be fine, I just need a minute to calm down.”

Again, this would be a good time for Tony to gracefully make his exit, leave Steve alone to suss out a very private problem, but the tense curve of Steve’s back and his strained voice just pull Tony in closer.

“How often is it happening?”

“A couple times a day,” Steve says, his eyes still not meeting Tony’s. “I’ve been ignoring it but now…” he shakes his head, his jaw clenching. “I just need to get rid of it.”

Tony scratches a hand across his beard, takes a deep breath. “Is it a uh, stimulation problem? There are videos on the internet that might help.”

“I tried,” Steve says, the color rising in his cheeks.

“No go, huh?”

Steve shakes his head, embarrassment mixing with something like defeat. Motivated more by empathy than desire, Tony takes a chance and stands right behind him. Close, but not touching.

“Want me to help?” he says quietly. “I can, if you want me to.”

“That’s not....you don’t have to.” Even in the dim bathroom light, Tony can see the flush spread across his chest.

“That’s not going away, Steve.” Tony says. He glances down at the bulge under Steve’s towel, and dares to places a gentle hand on Steve’s hip.

“You leave the towel where it is, ok? If you want me to stop, just say stop and I will.”

“Tony….” Steve holds his gaze in the mirror, panicked but out of options, before giving him a barely perceptible nod.

“Alright?” Tony asks again, and Steve says yes, slightly louder, through clenched teeth.

Keeping some space between them, Tony brushes the fingers of his other hand along Steve’s abdomen and cups his erection through the towel. Steve lets out a soft exhale at the touch, a good sign that Tony takes as permission to keep going. Tony rubs him slowly through the thick cotton, waiting to see if Steve tenses up again, or if he decides to pull away and end this right now. When he doesn’t, Tony reaches through the gap in towel, touching soft, hot skin. He strokes him lightly with this fingers, teasing or soothing he’s not sure which, before pulling away again.

“Hold on a second.”

From the counter, he pumps a little lotion into his hand, slicking his palm and finger tips. Steve’s eyes are shut tight. Tony watches his own reflection in the mirror before fixing his eyes on the sharp wing of Steve’s shoulder blade. With his slick palm, he takes Steve in his hand again, this time making a lose fist around the length and stroking slowly.

Steve gasps at the touch, fingers curled so tight Tony worries he’s going to snap the basin.

“That good?” Tony asks, genuinely unsure.

“Yeah, keep going.”

Sexual preferences are a unique thing and while Tony has no idea what Steve likes or how he likes it, he’s worked his own dick enough times to know the basic rhythm to these things, that starting slow is better than starting fast, that even a little slickness goes a long way.

He tightens his grip just a fraction and begins to work his hand up and down Steve’s rigid dick, which is starting to peak through the confines of the towel, already an angry shade of red. He keeps his movements light but efficient, brushing his thumb over the mushroom head until Steve’s breath starts coming in short, heavy bursts.

“Sometimes it’s hard to come if it’s too familiar,” Tony says softly, his breath grazing the shell of Steve’s ear. “You just need a change of pace is all.”

Steve doesn’t answer him, just turns his face into his shoulder, eyes shut tight. He can’t work out if it’s pain or pleasure that flickers across Steve’s face, but Tony guesses it’s a little both. There’s wetness gathering at the head of Steve’s dick and Tony uses that to his advantage, smearing it around. He works his hand quicker, adding a little more pressure to the flick of his wrist on the up stroke, until Steve’s gasping harshly.

“Like this?” Tony asks. It’s less bedroom talk and and more a request for feedback. Steve nods again, this time taking his hand and curling it briefly around Tony’s, guiding him to the exact rhythm he likes. It’s firmer and quicker than what Tony himself prefers, just shy of painful, but Steve groans at the change of pace, his head lolling onto one side. He’s close, Tony can tell, so he speeds up his strokes, going faster and firmer until Steve comes with a sharp cry that reverberates all through the bathroom.

They’re both breathless and quiet in the aftermath, Tony watching the rise and fall of Steve’s chest in the mirror as he continues to gently stroke him through the aftershocks.

“You ok?” Tony asks. He takes his sticky hand and places it on the inside of Steve’s thigh, the only point of contact between the two of them.

Steve nods, looking a fraction more relaxed. “Thank you,” he mumbles, still a little out of breath.

Tony’s tempted to toss off a one-liner, something to break the tension, but he just squeezes the inside Steve’s thigh before moving away. “Anytime,” he says. He wipes his hands quickly on a towel, hoping Steve doesn't notice the uncomfortable tightness in his own pants. This isn’t something he wants to get hard from, far from it, but the noises Steve made, the trusting way he’d responded to Tony’s hand, make his stomach tighten.

“Try to get some sleep,” Tony says. He shuts the bathroom door behind him, and thumps his forehead against the warm wood before heading back to his own room.

***

He sleeps like shit, waves of arousal and anxiety mixing in his head all night, invading his dreams. Maybe he’d pushed too far, maybe he made Steve do something he didn’t want to do, maybe he put his hands where they had no business being. The thoughts drive him out of bed earlier than usual, and he’s joins their weekly staff meeting with Secretary Ross in a foul mood.

It fades though when Steve walks in, dressed in crisp gray slacks and one of the soft blue sweaters he always seems to favor. Instead of avoiding Tony out of embarrassment, he scans the room, looking for him. They catch eyes and exchange a quick nod, and Tony’s about to go to him, tell him to take a few more days off, but Ross gets to him first.

“Captain Rogers!” His voice booms across the room. He shakes Steve’s hand vigorously, congratulating him on his escape like Steve just won some kind of Ninja Warrior challenge. “Never a doubt you could do it, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.” Steve squares himself up to military height and gives him a crisp nod.

“Eight days and not a scratch on you. Remarkable. Nothing can hut you, can it? You look like you’re ready to head back out into the field.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tony’s close to ripping Ross’ hand away, but Natasha catches his elbow before he can make a scene.

“Ross wants a debrief about the mission today,” Natasha says, perching on the edge of the table, after they’re out of ear shot.

Tony scoffs, is about to tell Ross to go fuck himself, when he sees the look on Natasha’s face. It’s clear she’s already conveyed the message.

“Not yet,” Tony says, not sure how much longer they can hold him off. He’s Steve to them, but to the rest, he’s Captain America, a highly valued government asset.

“I’m not telling half the world what happened out there before Steve has a chance to process it himself,” Tony says and Natasha squeezes his hand. “Good,” she says, walking away just as Steve takes his usual seat next to him.

The meeting progresses like most of them do, a mix of bureaucratic posturing and some actual drilling down into details, but it lasts far longer than necessary. By the tail end, Steve begins to shift in his seat, his jaw tightly set, the same look on his face as last night. Despite Ross’ earlier instance that he looks just fine, Tony knows that isn’t the case, and it makes him momentarily bold. Under the table, Tony rests his hand on Steve’s knee and leaves it there.

***

When they break for the day, Tony follows Steve none too discreetly into an alcove off the main hallway, where Steve leans his hands against the glass, taking a few deep breaths. Tony can begin to see the outline of a bulge forming in Steve’s pants.

“You really can’t control it can you?”

It would be comical, the world’s greatest super solider popping boners in public, but there’s no humor in the look Steve gives him. He looks so uncomfortable and scared that Tony ushers him down the hall into his own office. It’s larger than Steve’s, with blackout shades and a very secure lock.

“Think you can work one out? I’ll turn my back or stand guard or whatever.”

“This is ridiculous,” Steve mutters, dropping down into Tony’s office chair, resting his head in his hands. He sits with his legs spread apart, his erection straining his trousers.

“It’s a chemical reaction you can’t control, Steve.”

“I know that. I tried to get rid of it this morning. I just...can’t.”

There’s an edge to his voice, and Tony gets the sense that there’s something Steve’s not telling him, something larger and possibly darker happening that turns his stomach. Again, this would be the time for him to leave, but Steve’s breath is coming in harsh little bursts, so Tony doesn’t go anywhere.

“FRIDAY, black out shades at 90%”

The room plunges into darkness. There’s just enough light that Tony can make his way to the door and manually turn the lock.

“FRIDAY, set ‘Do Not Disturb’ protocol.”

“Tony, what are you doing?”

“Privacy. Figured you wouldn’t the entire compound watching.”

Steve shifts in his seat, tugging uncomfortably at his pants. It’s too dark in the room to see much, but he doesn’t need his eyes to sense Steve’s discomfort.

“Last night?” Tony asks. “Did it feel good?”

Steve waits a beat before answering. “Yeah. It did.”

“Good.”

Tony takes off his jacket and rolls up his sleeves, standing between Steve’s legs. They’ll have to be more careful in here so as not to stain the carpet, or make too much noise. He reaches down, cups Steve through the light wool of his trousers, exerting just the smallest amount of pressure until Steve drops his head back with a soft sigh.

It hadn’t taken much to get Steve off last night, whatever happening with his body making him so hard and so sensitive that working him to an orgasm had been easy. “Take off your sweater,’ he says and after a moments hesitation Steve obeys. Tony’s not used to obtaining Steve’s acquiescence so easily, and his stomach flips a little at the easy way Steve takes orders.

He keeps one hand around Steve’s still clothed dick, fondling under the fabric until Steve starts shifting his hips uncomfortably. He doesn’t want to keep Steve in pain but there’s an art of this kind of thing, and a little patience goes a long way.

“Same rules as last night,” Tony says. “Just say stop and I will.”

Steve grunts, his eyes slipping shut as Tony cards his fingers lightly through the back of his hair.

“Good,” he whispers almost to himself. “Very good. Do what I say, ok? I’ll get you there, but it’ll take just a little time.”

“God, Tony, just hurry up” Steve gasps, pusing his hips into Tony’s hands, desperate for more friction.

“Stop,” Tony says quietly. “It’ll leave a wet spot.”

Steve groans in frustration and tries to still his hips, hands gripping the metal arms of Tony’s desk chair. With care, Tony undoes Steve’s belt and tugs down his zipper, providing just a little bit of relief. The head of his dick is already poking out of the opening of Steve’s pale blue boxers, a site that, even in this weird, fucked up scenario, sends a jolt of desire through him. He reaches between Steve’s legs, thumbs the wet head of Steve’s dick, feels it already sticky with precome.

“Fuck,” Steve says, breath becoming slightly erratic. “Tony just finish it, come on.”

“In a second,” he says, distracted by the way, even in the dim light, he can see the fluid pearl just a little across the tip. He swipes at it again before freeing Steve totally from his boxers, his erection laying hard and long across his belly.

Like the night before, Tony strokes him a few times, using the precome as a little bit of slick, before licking his own palm and setting up a more comfortable rhythm. It’s not fast or torturously slow, and Steve makes abortive little thrusts into his fist, gasping at the feel of Tony’s hand jacking him.

“That’s good, Steve,” Tony whispers, curling his fingers back into the hair at the nape of Steve’s neck. The touch grounds him, keeps him in place. “You’re being so good for me.”

A soft little whimper escapes his mouth and it shoots straight to Tony’s dick, filling him with a wave of self loathing. He shouldn’t be getting turned on by this, but it’s impossible not to, not with the way Steve’s body is responding to every cue Tony sends him.

“Faster,” Steve says as his hips buck into Tony’s hand. “Please, just a little faster.”

He doesn’t want Steve to beg, that’s not what this is about, so Tony speeds up his strokes, remembers that Steve likes it firm and quick, and works him until Steve’s eyes are shut tight, his nails digging into the arm rests of Tony’s chair. Steve lets out a groan at the change of pace, something between pain and pleasure that makes Tony press their bodies closer, till his leg is wedged between Steve’s thigh. He pushes Steve’s legs open just a little wider, and it feels good enough that Steve’e mouth drops open, a long, low moan escaping his lips.

Tony bits his tongue, stops himself from saying the hundred, dirty, filthy things that want to come pouring out of his mouth right now, like how he wants to keep Steve like this forever, on the edge of coming, his mouth so open and wet that all he can imagine is pushing his own dick inside.

“Come for me,” he says instead, moving his hand faster. It’s somewhere between a command and a request, and he feels Steve go rigid under him, his dick jerking, as he spills hot, white reams all over Tony’s hand. “That’s it,” Tony whispers. “That’s it, come on, Steve, that’s so good.”

In the dark, Tony can feel and smell more than he can see the mess Steve makes, and he strokes him through it slowly, teasing, using just his finger tips, until Steve comes down fully.

“Jesus fuck,” Steve whispers, his chest heaving, as Tony releases him.

They stand together in the dark for a long moment, Tony surprised to find himself panting, his own heart beating wildly. With his hands still gripping the chair, Steve tips his head forward, rests it briefly on Tony’s stomach, before pushing away.

“You should let me help with that,” Steve says, putting a hand on the inside of Tony’s thigh. Tony’s own erection is pushing uncomfortably against his zipper.

“That’s not the deal here,” he says, squeezing Steve’s hand but moving it off him. “This isn’t a quid pro quo situation.”

“I don’t mind,” Steve says, but Tony wouldn’t do that.

They clean up quietly in the darkness, wiping away come and tucking in shirts until there’s hardly any evidence left of what happened. After the shades are up but before they leave, Steve thanks him with a soft touch to his wrist. Tony doesn’t say anything, just brushes the back of his hand across Steve’s cheek and opens the door.

***

“Does he remember anything at all?” Bruce walks with him after dinner, a sedate affair that Steve had skipped.

Tony shakes his head. “Not that he’s told me.”

It hasn’t actually occured to Tony to ask. What Steve remembers and what he decides to share are likely two different things. For all the boundaries he’s already violating, prying along that particular road seems a step too far.

After all, Tony already knows more than he wants too. What they found in the farmhouse was grotesque and stomach churning. He had expected some kind of Hydra base, perhaps a military installation like they kind they’d seen in Siberia. Instead what they found was an old, abandoned barn, unremarkable from the outside, but outfitted with enough medical grade equipment to function like a lab. In the far corner, there were three long, steel tables outfitted with sturdy, metal restraints and encased in barbed wire.

In their sweep, they found vials of Steve’s blood, discarded needles, and a stock pile of anesthetic chemicals. There were two massive tanks that had once been filled with water, but were now broken open. In a corner, there was a row of scalpels, all in a neat line.

“Steve must’ve fought his way out,” Sam had remarked, taking in the macabre scene in front of them.

“What do you think they wanted from him?” Natasha kicked away a lab coat that was streaked with red.

Tony had been too angry to speak and had restrained himself from firing his blasters and blowing the entire place up.

“Nothing good,” he said, eyes lingering on the turned over metal table, covered in what looked like chicken wire. He crouched down next to it, fingers pulling at the taught carbon steel. The edges of the barb had rusted over with dried blood, likely from the length of time spent digging into Steve’s skin. Tony was too scared to examine anything else more closely, for fear of what would be revealed, but it all pointed to an inevitable conclusion. Steve had spent eight days trapped in this hell, his body being abused, cut and violated.

“Frankly, I hope he doesn’t remember anything about it,” Tony says now, turning back to Bruce. “Nothing good can come from it.”

“I know you want to protect him Tony, but that might not be what’s best,” Bruce says.

They had taken photos, documented everything, and let only a few trusted SHIELD agents clean up the mess. The report was written, he just hadn’t let anyone see it.

“Do you think it will help him right now? You want me to shove that report in his face? So he can see what was done to him?”

Bruce shakes his head, not rising to Tony’s anger.

“You know he’s not OK. What he went through...that kind of trauma doesn’t just leave a person.” Bruce stops, makes Tony look at him. “I don’t remember a lot when I’m the Hulk, but when I come back to being me, I can still sense it. It’s all still inside me, Tony. Just because Steve can’t remember what happened doesn’t mean he can’t still feel it.”

***

Tony takes a deep breath and lingers at the door to the gym, clutching a thick accordion file folder. Inside, Steve stands at the far end, the rhythmic _thump thump thump_ of his fists filling the room. Even without FRIDAY’s assistance, Tony had known this is where he would find him, even at this late hour.

“You spying on me or did you come here to work out?” Steve calls.

“Neither,” Tony says, finally moving his feet. He’s been hovering for the better part of 10 minutes. Waiting and watching as Steve pounds the shit out of a punching bag. Sweat drips down his back, creating a long, damp V where his shirt sticks to his skin. A few days ago, there was a good chance that Steve was dead. Right now, you wouldn’t be able to tell that a single thing was wrong with him. At least not from the outside.

“You here to nag me about sleeping?” Steve asks. He wipes his forehead with a towel, and begins to untape his hands. From the looks of it, Steve’s been down here a good long while.

“That’s not why I’m here,” Tony says and Steve catches site of the folder he’s holding.

“Oh.” Steve grabs some water and sits on one of the benches that circle the boxing area. “Is that for me?”

Tony waves it around in his hand. “I even printed it all out for you, because I know what a luddite you are.”

“Who else has seen it?”

“Just us,” Tony says. “Rhody, Bruce, Nat. And me and Sam.” He wouldn’t send it on to SHIELD, not until Steve was OK with it. There are more than a few government organizations breathing down their necks, feigning entitlement to something they have no right to.

Steve reaches for the file, but at the last second, Tony it pulls away. “Look, you don’t have to read it if you’re not ready for it, Steve. There’s no pressure.” It’s a half-hearted protest, and they both know Steve can’t avoid these images forever, though Tony would do anything to spare him from them.

“It’s OK, Tony,” Steve says, taking the package from his hand. “I’m ready.”

Their report hasn’t spared any details, documenting as much as they could, but there are large swaths of information missing, certain questions that only Steve can answer. With his heart in his throat, Tony makes himself bring it up, the thing he’s been avoiding asking for far too long.

“Steve, with what they put you through. You were held for such a long time. There’s a chance of sexual...”

“No.” Steve cuts him off sharply, shaking his head. “That’s not it,” he says softer. “I can’t remember details, or anything really, but I can feel things in my body. That’s not what it feels like. Nothing in my body feels right, but it’s not that.”

“Are you sure,” Tony pushes back, just to be safe.

Steve nods, his eyes softening just a little. “Yeah.”

Tony gives him a sad smile and squeezes his shoulder, one fear at least releasing in his chest.

“Good,” he says and leaves Steve alone with the thick stack of papers.

***

On the way back up to his room, he has FRIDAY disable the security cameras around the gym, so that even if he wanted to, he can’t evesdrop on Steve’s location. He’s already too comfortable crossing the lines of their relationship, the memory of what happened earlier today turning into an urgent pressing need inside his gut. He doesn’t let himself jerk off to that though, no matter how hard he gets in the shower. It feels wrong to use Steve’s confusion and pain for his own pleasure and he wills his erection to soften before tucking himself into a pair of boxers and throwing on a t-shirt. He’s toweling off his hair, thoughts still firmly focused on the folder he left with Steve, when the door chimes.

“Captain Rogers to see you, boss,” FRIDAY says, as Tony throws aside the towel and heads to the door, swinging it open.

“It didn’t spark anything for me,” Steve says, looking distraught. He stands across the threshold, t-shirt matted to his skin with old sweat, little bits of boxing tape still on his fingers. “I didn’t look at those pictures and suddenly have it all come flooding back to me.”

“That’s OK, ” Tony says. “No one expects you to remember, Steve.”

“I thought it would help, you know, if I looked at the photos, the proof. But I can’t,” he shakes his head and Tony leads him inside, shutting the door firmly behind them. Steve stands in the middle of the room, and Tony can feel him take a deep breath and count to 10 before slowly letting it out. “I can’t get anything to feel right in my body. Physically, I’m fine but just everything...inside me…” he trails off, voice shaky.

Tony lays a hand on his arm. There’s a soft little tremor running through him, his muscles tight as thick cords of rope. There’s not an ounce of ease inside him, and Tony realizes he’s been going about this all wrong, giving Steve what he thought he needed, when in fact it wasn’t what he needed at all.

“Let’s go to bed, alright?” he tries. When Steve still doesn’t move, Tony tugs just a little at his elbow and nudges him towards the bathroom. “Shower first, OK. You gotta rest.” He rustles up some clean underwear, sweats and a t-shirt and leaves them by the sink while Steve rinses off. He doesn’t linger, but his eyes drift to the shower stall, where Steve is standing, shoulders slumped under the hot water. It would be erotic, almost, if everything about didn’t radiate sadness.

When Steve comes to bed, he’s only wearing the slightly too small briefs Tony left for him, the hard line of his erection curved up along his belly, the head pressed tight against the waist band. He stands before the bed defiantly, as if daring Tony to oder him to put on more clothes. Tony runs his hand up the outside of Steve’s thigh, feeling the soft hairs and hard muscle underneath. He doesn’t want it to, but it makes Tony’s stomach flip to see the trust in Steve’s eyes right now, the naked, open way he’s staring at Tony for help. It makes his heart clench, the responsibility he now has.

“Come here.” Tony flips back the covers, sliding over as Steve sits at the edge of the bed.

He’d done this all wrong the last two times, he knows that now.

“You cold?” Steve shakes his head but slides under the covers, laying flat on his back. Tony dims the lights even lower, so he can only see the outlines of Steve face. Before they get started, he moves his hand up Steve’s torso, laying a flat palm on his chest, feeling the comforting beat of his heart.

“Same deal as last time, ok? Tell me to stop and I will.” He makes out a slight nod, but asks Steve to say it out loud.

“OK,” Steve says. He keeps his eyes on Tony, hasn’t flinched at all as Tony turns onto his side, sweeping his fingers in a half-arc across Steve’s chest. For a while, he doesn’t do much more than that, letting one hand idly explore Steve’s body. He keeps his touches gently, brushing finger tips across Steve’s belly, along his chest and side, until his eyes close and his breathing comes a little easier.

He doesn’t ask if it feels good yet, knows Steve’s body is sending him so many mixed up signals he’s not sure what he’s feeling. It’s a good sign though, that he relaxes deeper into the mattress, legs falling open slightly.

“Turn over,” Tony says.

For a second, he thinks Steve will fight him on it, but he obeys, settling face down on the bed. He turns his head to the side, arms curving around his pillow. Tony pulls the thin sheet down a little lower, just past the low curve of his hips, so it exposes Steve’s lower back.

He takes a deep breath and straddles Steve’s hips, careful to keep his own weight on his knees and heels. He places both hands on Steve’s hips, before firmly pushing them up his side. Steve lets out a loud exhale at the sensation and Tony does it again, using more pressure this time, and digging in his thumbs. He presses them all the way up Steve’s back, trying to loosen the thick ligatures of muscle.

Steve grunts when he does it a third time, his back going tense, fingers digging into the pillow.

“Tony.” He sounds surprised but doesn’t say stop, so Tony does it several times over, till Steve’s breathing faster.

“It’s ok, relax,” he mumbles. Tony keeps his hands on Steve’s shoulders and decides to focus on just his neck. He puts all his weight into his thumbs, kneading them up and down Steve’s neck, till he’s pressing his forehead into the pillow, arching up into Tony’s touch.

“Feel good?” Tony asks, and gets an affirmative grunt in response. He keeps his hands busy, digging into the slabs of muscle along Steve’s back and shoulders, kneading and pressing into smooth, unmarked flesh, but his mind keeps flashing back to the photos in the report. The ones of overturned medical tables and barbed wire and tough, metal restraints. He doesn’t know details, just that Steve’s body--the beautiful, trembling one under his hands right now--had been torn, cut and lashed at; treated with such inhumanity that makes Tony’s throat close up in rage.

“You’re alright,” he whispers, when Steve starts to twitch under him. He digs his thumbs into Steve’s posterior muscles, sweeping up in a little half circle until Steve is shifting his hips rhythmically against the the bed.

“Tony,” he’s gasping now, as Tony makes his touch lighter, more soothing. He moans, dropping his head again and lifting his hips and spreading his legs. “Tony, please,” he pleads and Tony gives in easily.

“Ok,” Tony says, soothing. “Ok.” He tugs at Steve’s leg, till he’s up on one knee and slides his hand between Steve’s body and the bed. He doesn’t wait to be told what to do, or ask. He just cups Steve over his briefs, which are soaked in precome.

“Fuck,” he curses, his own dick jumping at the feel of it. Steve arches back into him, moans as Tony frees him from the damp cloth and takes him in his hand. He’s so hard it must be painful and Tony doesn’t try to draw it out or make it last any longer than it should. He strokes Steve a few times, pays attention to way Steve’s rocking into his hand, the way his fingers are crushing the pillow.

“That’s it,” he whispers in Steve’s ear, nose brushing against the damp hair at the nape of his neck. “You’re doing so good for me, Steve.”

Steve whimpers again and fumbles for Tony’s free hand. He crushers their fingers together and brings Tony’s arm around his chest.

“It’s alright,” Tony says again, his fist curled tight. “You don’t have to fight it.” He keeps his voice low, pushing his face so close to Steve’s they’re practically kissing. He pumps his hand faster now, speeding up his strokes, as Steve gasps and curses and then goes suddenly still as he comes in tight little jerks, all over the bed.

“Fuck,” Tony curses at the site of it, sinking his teeth into Steve’s neck as he trembles and come apart in his arms. He strokes him through the aftershocks, trailing his fingers along Steve’s cock until they’re both spent and collapsed in a sweaty heap on the bed. Tony’s own erection is urgent but he ignores it, letting it rest heavy against the curve of Steve’s ass.

For a long time, neither of them move, until Tony’s arm goes numb from being trapped under Steve’s chest. He wiggles his fingers and Steve gets the hint, shiting enough for Tony to free himself. Tony doesn’t go far though, just rearranges himself so he’s draped over Steve’s back, an arm wrapped around his waist.

***

He wakes to early morning light filtering into the room. The drapes haven’t been shut and streaks of pale gold cross the bed, creating little windows of light across Steve’s bare back. With no one to judge him for doing so, Tony lets himself stare at Steve’s profile, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. In this light, Steve’s hair is more golden than brown, his lashes stark against his pale skin. Unable to help himself he grazes the back of his hand against Steve’s cheek, feeling the scratchy coarseness of his beard. Usually a light sleeper, Steve doesn’t even stir. He trails light finger tips across Steve’s back, marveling at the muscled smoothness. The serum heals fast enough that there are no scars from his ordeal in the barn, no bodily proof of the horror he suffered through. It’s with a pang of deep sadness that Tony realizes that Steve’s body heals quickly, so his spirit has no choice but to play along, whether it wants to or not.

Tony’s not one to linger in bed, but he knows this chance may not come again. He knows he won’t get back to sleep and for once he’s glad of it. He curls tighter around Steve, burying his face in the back of his neck, counting his own breaths until Steve finally starts to stir.

***

The morning after is not awkward, or, not as awkward as it could be. Tony refrains from making dirty jokes and disappears quickly to make use of the bathroom. When he comes back out, Steve’s in sweat pants and a t-shirt, stripping the bed.

“You gonna do my laundry now?” he asks, buttoning up his shirt.

“Just making myself useful,” Steve mutters. “You probably don’t want to sleep in these again.”

Tony can’t help but wink. “Don't’ be so sure about that,” he says and Steve blushes. “How are you feeling?” he asks, turning serious again.

“Fine,” Steve says, still focused on the bed. He’s shaking out the pillow cases, as if the compound doesn’t have a cleaning service.

“Hey,” He catches Steve’s hand before he can busy himself with more bedding. “Anything you want to talk about?” He hates this part of sex, but it’s the most important. In the throws of desire things can get out of hand, boundaries crossed. He needs Steve to be able to tell him if that’s the case.

“No,” Steve squeezes his hand. “It was--it was all good, Tony. I, uh, I appreciate it.”

“Don’t act like I’m doing you some big favor, Steve,” he says.

“Aren’t you though?”

“You think this is a sacrifice I’m making?”

Steve shakes his head, knows that even though they’ve never talked about it, they’re moving closer to something more serious, more permanent. “Just… thank you,” Steve says. “For taking care of it.” For taking care of me, he means.

“Yeah,” Tony says, charmed by the bright shade of red Steve is turning. A hint of a genuine smile crosses Steve’s face and Tony’s tempted, briefly, to lean in and kiss him. He doesn’t though, and let’s Steve get on with his morning.

***

“They’re waiting for you,” Natasha says. His good mood fades when he sees the tight press of her mouth.

“Let them wait,” he says, keying into the lab. He’s about to let the door shut behind him, but Natasha grabs his arm, keeping him in place.

“We can’t hold them off any longer, Tony. I don’t want to put him through this either but either we do this our way, or they’re gonna do it their way, and trust me, their way isn’t going to be easy.”

Tony thinks back to Steve’s easy smile from this morning, how, after days of strain, he’s starting to loosen, just a little. He doesn’t want to know what the full SHIELD debrief will do to him.

“He’s not ready,” Tony protests but Natasha shakes her head in resignation. “That’s not up to you to decide,” she says.

An hour later, Tony’s pacing around the small confines of Bruce’s office. “I’m telling you, Steve doesn’t remember anything. You’re not going to get anything out of harassing him.”

“Stark, calm down.” Fury is as steady as ever, leaning back on Bruce’s sofa. “We’re asking for a debrief is all. We need to know what he remembers and what he doesn’t. That’s it. No one is interested in harassing him.”

“Nick, do you know what GHB is?” Bruce cuts in, before Tony can snap again.

“It’s a club drug, right?” Maria Hill says. She’s lately never not in the room if Fury is.

“In small doses, maybe. It’s main use is an anesthetic. It numbs people to pain but can also essentially wipe out their memory.” He leaves out the part about how it increases sexual arousal, for which Tony is unendingly grateful. “When I did his labs, Steve’s blood was drowning in it. They kept him mostly under sedation for 8 days. It could have killed him. Fried his brain totally or destroyed his ability to make any new memories at all.”

“Bruce, just because…”

“It’s a fucking miracle he’s still alive and functioning,” Bruce snaps. “They were either too incompetent or too lazy to regulate the doses. He was either knocked out the entire time or awake but unable to remember anything. Neither of these scenarios is good.”

“You think I wanna do this?” Nick leans forward, his patience also wearing thin. “I read Stark’s report and I saw the photos. I can put enough together to know that what he went through was some fucked up shit. But he either talks to me or Everett Ross and the CIA come banging down your door. Which do you think he’s going to prefer?”

Tony bristles, but Fury’s got a point. He catches Bruce’s eye and nods.

“You can have 30 minutes,” Bruce says. “He gets to pick who stays in the room. No audio or video recording. If he shows any signs of distress, it’s over.”

An hour later, they’re gathered in the back conference room, the one Tony had specifically built for maximum privacy. The walls are soundproof, there are no sight lines to it, and no windows. Like a good solider, Steve hadn’t objected at all to Fury’s request, merely nodded his head and obeyed orders.

“30 minutes,” Tony reminds them, pulling up the report on one of the holographic screens. “Not a second more.”

“Tony, it’s fine.” Steve’s voice is placid and calm, and it sets Tony teeth on edge even more. Everything from last night is still too fresh in his mind, and he’s not willing to watch Steve slit open a vein just to appease the bureaucratic process.

“None of this is personal, Steve,” Fury says before he throws the first image on the screen.

Steve nods, his back ramrod straight in the chair. “I know. Let’s get it over with.”

The questions are as brutal and invasive as Tony expected, and Bruce has to grab his elbow more than once to stop him from jumping across the room.

“Captain Rogers, the photos from the scene show you were likely restrained for the better part of 8 days. Can you recollect any of that?”

“No.” Steve answers professionally, his voice flat, devoid of any emotion.

“What’s the last thing you remember before Colonel Rhodes and Sam Wilson found you?”

There’s a brief pause, as Steve searches his memory.

“Landing the jet outside the perimeter of a known Hydra base. I don’t...” he pauses again and takes another breath. “I don’t remember how I got into the woods, or into that house.”

“Captain Rogers, Dr. Banner’s medical report indicates that when you were found, your body was covered in cuts and scars indicative of physical torture. Can you recall anything that was done to you?”

Steve goes white, but his voice stays even. “No, I can’t.”

“Do you know how many men or women held you captive.”

“No.”

“Can you recall how you escaped?”

“Not really.”

“Do you think you were you sexually assaulted?”

“Not that I’m aware.”

“Is it a possibility?”

“That’s enough,” Tony snaps from the back of the room.

Steve ignores him and answers anyway. “Yes, it is,” he says so matter of factly it turns Tony’s insides into ice. “But, there’s no medical evidence of that, so no, I don’t think so.”

“Captain Rogers, are you experiencing any adverse side effects from your capture?” Marie keeps her voice cool, professional.

“Not many,” Steve’s gaze doesn’t waiver. “Some insomnia, residual aches and pains. Nothing serious.”

“Those are physical. Mentally, how are you doing?”

“Fine,” Steve doesn’t bother qualifying his answer. “We’re trained to be resilient.”

It ends in exactly 28 minutes, Steve and Nick and Maria shaking hands stiffly across the table, before leaving in seperate directions.

***

There’s usually no shortage of ways for Tony to occupy himself during a given day. Even without the duties of Iron Man, it’s easy enough as a genius-billionaire-playboy-philanthropist to keep his overactive mind busy, but right now, nothing he tries seems to stick.

He wears a path around his lab, shuffling from one task to another, unable to focus. His thoughts are scattered, every moment of full concentration interrupted not just by the memory of Steve’s tense shoulders and rigid, unmoving back, but by flashes from last night, the way Steve had come apart under his hands, moaned so softly at his touch. He had wanted to chase after Steve after the debrief, but Bruce had shaken his head, his arms crossed over his chest. “Give him some space, Tony. He’ll come to you when he’s ready.”

He manages a few hours of distraction before finally giving up the ghost, his lab a shamble of half-started projects. Steve’s kept his location on private, so Tony doesn’t go looking for him, for once willing to respect his boundaries.

It’s late by the time he finally heads back to his room and punches in the code without thinking. The door has slid shut behind him before he registers Steve, sitting naked at the edge of his bed, silhouetted in the warm glow of a bedside lamp.

“Hey.” Steve scrubs a hand through his hair, the other holding a pillow across his lap.

“Did I interrupt something?” Tony says dumbly. “Want me to come back?”

“This is your room, Tony.”

“It just looks like you’re in the middle of something.”

Steve shakes his head. “I was.” He rests his elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands. “I tried to take care of this,” his eyes drop to his crotch, ”by myself. Thought that after last night, maybe it would help if I could be in this bed but…” he trails off, sounding frustrated and ashamed.

“It’s alright,” Tony says. His face heats up at the thought of Steve, in his bed, hand wrapped up around himself, trying to come in sheets that smell like Tony.

“I can’t,” Steve says before stoping to take another deep breath. When looks up at Tony again, his eyes are red rimmed, and he looks almost scared. “I can’t remember anything, not a single thing, Tony.” He clenches his jaw so hard, Tony see’s the muscle jump. “The last thing I remember is parachuting into the drop zone. After that, it was Bruce waking me up at the compound.”

“I know,” Tony says again, at a loss at how to stop the awful, watery wavier in Steve’s voice. “That’s ok.”

“I can feel it though,” he says in rush. “All through my body. Everything inside me feels,” he shakes his head at a loss for words, a tear spilling out of the corner of his eye.

Two days ago, in the bathroom when Tony had first touched him, he had made a mistake. He sees that now. He kept space between their bodies, thought that after everything Steve had been through, he wouldn’t want to be touched at all. He doesn’t make the same mistake now and wraps his arms around Steve, tangling his fingers into hair as Steve hides his face against the stiff silk of Tony’s dress shirt. Light tremors run through his body and Tony digs his fingers into the stiff muscle around Steve’s back, trying to hold him together.

“It’s alright,” he whispers, his own voice coming out horse. He grips harder, almost to the point of pain. “Let me help.”

Steve digs his fingers into Tony’s side briefly, before pulling away. Tony cups the side of Steve’s face and swipes a thumb under his eye. “I don’t get off on seeing you in pain, Rogers. That’s not it.” He cards his fingers lightly through Steve’s hair, till his shoulders sag. “Let me,” he says again, and moves the pillow off of Steve’s lap.

His underwear is pulled down just enough so that Steve’s erection juts painfully forward. Tony winces at site of his dick, an angry shade of red that looks like it’s been rubbed raw. He has no idea how long Steve tried to force it, attacked the problem like he would anything else, with a determination that’s almost counter productive.

“Lie down,” he says and tugs Steve’s briefs off. Steve rolls onto his stomach like the last time, hands wrapped around a pillow. He waits patiently as Tony strips down to his shorts again, and pulls a bottle of clear liquid from the nightstand.

“Easy,” he says and straddles Steve again. He takes a deep breath, tries to control the trembling in his own hands before touching Steve. Like the night before, Tony starts by running his hands up and down Steve’s spine, pressing his thumbs into flesh till he feels Steve deflate beneath him. He keeps going, paying attention to the minute shifts in Steve’s breath, the twitches and flinches as Tony hits on a particular sore or sensitive spot.

What language fails to do, Tony tries to accomplish with his hands. Somewhere buried inside Steve are the memories of what he went through, the horror and fear and sadness imprinted not in his subconscious, but in his body. Like memory, encoded not into the recesses of his mind, but in the muscles of his lower back and shoulders, in his strong thighs and massive biceps, into the deep tissue that runs along his thick, yoke of a neck. He doesn't worry about being gentle, not right now, and wants only to remind Steve that he’s safe in his own body, safe in Tony’s tight grip. Tony tries to work those memories lose, release whatever fear remains inside him, that’s kept him so afraid of touching himself.

“You’re safe here,” he says, pressing wide parabolas across Steve’s shoulders, hoping to replace pain with something he hopes is comfort. Steve’s body has been made for war, a magnificent tool of violence and carnage. It has been beaten, attacked, experimented on. How many people, Tony wonders, a lump forming in his throat, have touched it with nothing but love and care?

“You’re alright,” Tony says softly, and he leans forward, lips grazing the shell of Steve’s ear.

“Tony,” Steve gasps a little and begins to rock his hips again, just like last night. Tony holds him still, stopping the motion.

“Not yet,” he says, and flips Steve over so he’s on his back, erection pointed rudley at the ceiling. Tony’s own erection is straining his briefs but he ignores it and spreads Steve’s legs wider apart. He works his thumbs into the soft flesh around Steve’s hips and thighs, making a fist and pushing his knuckles into the dense tissue that’s rock hard from the thousands of squats Steve surely does. It makes Steve groan and arch his back, his dick making pathetic little thrusts into thin air. He wants to come and Tony’s tempted to let him, but not yet, not till he pushes just a little further. Tony trails a hand up Steve’s chest, and flicks his thumb across Steve’s nipple, making him gasp.

“Good,” Tony says and does it again, rubbing until Steve’s breathing heavier. “Let it feel good, OK?”

He leans over him, and grabs the bottle of lube from the bedside table, pumping a little on Steve’s abdomen and cock. “We’re getting close, alright, just stay with me,” Tony says. He leans over Steve, and runs a hand through his hair, noticing it’s already damp with sweat.

“You want to stop you just say, no ok?” Tony says and Steve nods, his face betraying a flicker of uncertainty. “Give me your hand,” he says and Steve almost protests, squeezes his eye shut in panic. “I’m right here,” Tony says again, his fingers still soothing. He fumbles for Steve’s hand, and intertwines their fingers, wrapping them both around Steve’s cock in a lose grip.

He’s hot and achingly hard and Tony sets the pace for them, slowly fisting Steve’s dick up and down, creating just enough friction for it to feel good. He leans over him, breathing moist and heavy into Steve’s mouth, until Steve untangles his hand, and grips Tony’s hip instead.

“OK,” Tony mumbles into his mouth. “That’s OK,” He wants to kiss Steve, has wanted to badly for days, but doesn’t take the risk now. He keeps his hand wrapped around Steve’s cock and thumbs lightly at the head. He’s slick with lube and precome and Steve moans for him as Tony jacks him at a more punishing pace. He’s keeping Steve on edge, possibly for a little too long, but it’s imperative for what he’s trying to accomplish. Before Steve can come, he eases off Steve’s dick and reaches between his legs to gently tug at Steve’s balls, making him cry out and snap his hips up.

“Fuck,” Tony whispers, kissing along the hollow of Steve’s throat, while his hands continue to work.

“I’m gonna come Tony,” Steve says so Tony stops, takes both his hands away and winds them in Steve’s hair, pressing their bodies together till there’s not a breath of space between them. He brushes his lips against Steve’s temple, and slides the damp fabric of his cloth covered erection along Steve’s dick, making him curse loudly. Steve’s hands fumble for this waist and grip him tightly as Tony slides their erections together, the head of Steve’s cock catching against Tony’s belly.

“Oh god, oh fuck Tony,” he’s practically begging but Tony pays him no mind. “Can I take these off?” he asks and Steve grunts out an affirmative, pushing at Tony’s underwear. He kicks it off and lines their cocks up together, almost passing out himself from the pleasure.

“God, you feel so god,” Tony whispers into his ear. “You’re being so good for me, Steve. So very very good.”

Steve lets out a sound that’s something between a whimper and a cry, his hands gripping at Tony’s waist again. The sweat and lube between them creates a nice, slick surface and Tony keeps rutting on Steve, letting the head of his dick slide between the perfect V of his hips, while Steve bucks up into him, desperate for more touching, more friction, more something.

“Baby,” Tony says softly, and Steve practically sobs, frustrated and desperate. “Come for me,” he says and Steve leans up and smashes their mouths together, almost in pain.

“I can’t,” he gasps, sweat dripping down his face. “God, Tony I want to, believe me, I want to, but I can’t.”

Tony takes Steve’s hand off his hip, squeezes it before putting it firmly on the bed. “Just let it feel good,” he says, kissing him slowly. “You’re safe now. You don’t have to fight so hard.” He pushes his tongue inside Steve’s mouth, licking against the soft palate, until Steve’s writhing under him, fingers tearing at the soft cotton of the bedsheet. “Come for me,” he says again and Steve rips his mouth away, his hand flying to his dick.

“That’s it,” Tony says, kissing down his body, rubbing his own erection against Steve’s busy knuckles. “You’re doing so good Steve,” he whispers as Steve’s begins to jerk himself harder and faster, the head of his dick hitting Tony’s stomach with a perfect little sting.

“Tony, please,” Steve begs and Tony curls all the way around him, hands tangled in his hair and bites at his lip. He uses his knee to push Steve’s leg farther apart, weighing him down till there’s no space between them.

“Come for me,” Tony says again and Steve shuts his eyes tight and arches up off the bed, body jerking violently before he comes with a long, strangled cry.

“Baby,” Tony whispers, petting his face, watching the spill of white. His breathing is harsh and ragged, his eyes rough and watery and he buries his face in Tony’s neck, body heaving with effort. “It’s ok,” Tony says, their hips still rocking together, slick with come and sweat. Steve finds his mouth and kisses him again, this time more desperate than before, his sticky fingers digging into Tony’s side, great swallows of air ejecting from his lungs.

Unable to wait any longer, Tony frees his right hand and grasps his own erection, only needing to stroke himself once, twice before finally coming in sweet, delirious bursts along Steve’s chest.  
It empties him almost completely, leaving him shaky and unmoored, and he tips his forehead against Steve’s.

“I’m sorry,” Tony says into his hair, holding him close. “I’m sorry I made you do it, but I had to.” Steve nods against his shoulder and Tony curls them on their side, letting Steve fall apart in his arms.

He tugs a sheet over them, just enough to keep out the chill on their cooling skin, and murmurs soft nothings till Steve’s breathing evens out and he pulls away slightly. Tony’s glad for the light of the bedside lamp, it illuminates not just the pale blue of his eyes, but shows the wrinkles on Steve’s forehead, the deep crease between his brow. He traces his fingers over those small flaws, grateful for the cracks, and feels the terrible weight of the new responsibility in front of him. One orgasm won’t cure everything, but it’s a start.

Steve takes his hand, and kisses the inside of his palm, pulling Tony closer with his leg. They’re both a mess, showers and a change of sheets in their future, but he lets it be for now, lets them unburden themselves with each other.

“How are you feeling,” Tony asks, his thumb brushing the edge of Steve’s mouth.

Steve smiles, the light in his eyes changing a bit.

“Better,” he says. “Not perfect, but better.”

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this really came from The Body Keeps the Score, by Bessel van der Kolk, which is all about trauma and how it gets stored in the body.
> 
> A vague prequel to [Up in the Air,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23582986) in my mind.


End file.
